


Some Fun With a Gun

by Godspeed_Cowboy



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alcohol, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Depressed Haruno Sakura, Drinking, Failed Suicide Attempt, Gen, Guns, Haruno Sakura Deserves Better, Haruno Sakura Has Issues, Haruno Sakura Needs a Hug, Haruno Sakura-centric, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, One Shot, Other, POV Haruno Sakura, Russian Roulette, Shooting Guns, Someone get this bitch a support system, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Whump, i think, sakura isn't doing well y'all, she's goin through it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:54:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25405753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Godspeed_Cowboy/pseuds/Godspeed_Cowboy
Summary: A moment in which Sakura thinks about some things and acts on others.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 55





	Some Fun With a Gun

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone! I hope you enjoy this!

She finds herself sitting at a table, her kitchen table, rickety and falling apart and made from wood that’s been eroding away like joints without cartilage, but it has too much sentiment to be thrown out.

_It looks dirty_ , she thinks, dirtier than she knows it is, under the lone, yellowing light of her ceiling fan, accented by and reflecting off of the hideous green and white tiles placed on the walls and the floor of the kitchen, the rest of the house dark like the night outside. Down the hall, a clock ticks, rhythmically, steady. She breathes in and out, her head resting against her knuckles, rough with time and work, strands of pink falling in her vision and the rest of her greasy mass falling on the back of her neck, feeling hot. The air is stuffy even when she’s in a tank top and one of her thinnest pairs of sweatpants with the fan at its highest setting, it seems, or maybe that’s another one of her delusions. She’s had many of those and it would make plenty of sense to have another. Her breath shudders for a moment before it goes back to its own steady rhythm. 

In front of her to her right is a bottle of something cheap and darkly colored and a glass filled shallow. She can’t help but think that it’s a kind of symbolism, one of her inner self, but oh, those are simply drunk thoughts, aren’t they? She looks down into the cup. Her right eye stares back. 

To the left of the bottle is a gun, a _familiar_ gun, a small one, a model of a revolver, and a single bullet. On the crip of the gun is a pair of letters, initials, H.K. Her father’s initials, her father’s gun, one that she remembers has been pointed at her before, but she shoves that thought back into the vault where it so rightfully belongs. Belatedly, she also thinks of the cute red and white spotted vase in the middle of her table, but it’s flowers were now wilted, rotting alongside everything else in the house, alongside _her_. She turns her head slow, slow enough to feel the bones in it creak just a little, and she eyes it, lips pursed. Underneath the table, her feet cross over each other, and she scrunches her toes against the cold tile, pulling her legs back against her just-as-rickety chair’s legs. On the kitchen counter in front of the piled up dishes and rotting produce, a family photo stares at her. She looks up, stares back.

It’s a cute photo, she can admit. Her mother to the left, her father to the right, and her in the middle to create a classic picture of a happy family. It’s all bright smiles and happy days. That’s what it’s _supposed_ to be. 

She knows better now, has known better for a while.

She stares at her father in the picture. A tall, portly man with bad hair as bright as her own and a worse beard and a smile bigger than his own sparkling black eyes. She finds it kind of funny, how easy he fooled people.

She wants to find it funnier that she’s turning out to be like him, but she doesn’t, and she isn’t sure if that's a sad thing or not.

Her eyes go back to the gun, and she sighs, shoulder falling. Her right lid twitches, then her left.

She makes her decision.

She unfolds her hands, picks up the glass, and throws back what’s left in it, falling down her throat as she tilts her head far back enough to where she’s able to stare at the sink if she tries hard enough. The glass hits the table with a ‘clink’ and it rattles the table and everything on it. 

Then she grabs the bottle by the neck, almost falling out of her hands in the process, and she pours herself another glass, this time all the way to the rim to get out that last ‘drop’ like she’d seen so many times before. 

Then she picks up the gun, gently held in her right hand, though she hates the weapon to hell and back.

It’s a small thing, tiny, laughable for its size, hell, she wants to laugh a little for how it fits in her hand, but she knows that doesn’t make it any less lethal. She opens it, the barrel, and six empty holes meet her gaze, bitter or blank she doesn’t even know. Her left hand crawls over the cracks until it meets the cold metal of the bullet. She grabs it, and ignores the slight tremor that grows bigger in her hand as she puts it into one of the holes, almost dropping it while doing so, the gun _and_ the bullet. It slides in easy, smooth, with a little ‘schk’. 

She pushes the barrel close, slowly, and then she hits it. Hard. The barrel spins several times. She hits it again. It spins faster. One more time, she hits it, and the speed doesn’t change this time, but hey, third time’s the charm.

The barrel comes to a slow stop with a soft ‘click’.

It’s ready. 

She’s ready.

She brings it up to the left side of her head, straightens her spine, and she breathes in deep. _Now or never_ , _you coward_ , she thinks. She lets the breath go, closes her eyes.

She doesn’t know what she hopes the outcome will be. She thinks she’s lying to herself with that statement.

The slight tremor turns into shaking and it spreads throughout her entire body. Fear or excitement, she can’t tell. But she tastes the adrenaline on her tongue either way. A smile pulls at her lips, but she doesn’t know if it’s happy or nervous.

At this point, her brain a puddle and her blood running hot in her veins from the amount of booze she’s drank, she isn’t even sure if she knows anything at all.

Her breath gets quicker and her heartbeat spikes, loud in her ears now. The voice in her head might be louder, though.

_Now, now, now, pull it now, NOW, PULL THE TRIGGER YOU FUCK-_

She pulls the trigger and all the breath leaves her lungs in one fell swoop and her heart stops for a moment. Her eyes stay closed.

Nothing happened.

A dud.

She isn’t sure why or how it happens next, but suddenly there’s a pool of something hot in her stomach and it travels up her throat in waves and she realises it’s the heat of pure, unhinged _anger_. 

A growl slips out from behind her teeth, clenched, as her lips peel back and her brows come forth and her face turns into something hideous but just enough to show how she feels.

“GOD FUCKING DAMN IT!” She yells.

The rest of her thoughts come out in a wordless, painful, war-like cry as she points the gun at the vase and pulls the trigger again, quick. For about four shots, nothing happens.

The fifth shot strikes home base.

The gun goes off with a loud bang that reverbs and hurts her ears and bright flash that makes her recoil and drop the gun with a hiss. The flower vase explodes, debri going everywhere, and she barely saves herself from getting glass in her face, her arms quickly coming up to cross over it, protect her as best as they can from flying shards. 

There’s silence for a few long moments, and then finally she moves her arms down to see the damage. She notices that a few shards landed in her arms, and they’re bleeding now, but that can wait. Her emerald eyes survey the table.

There’s glass all over it now, most of it keeping to the center and fanning out to the edges. There’s powder as well, makes the table look sparkly and grey and _dusty_ all at the same time. She looks further across, past the little doorway that her table sits in front of, has to squint to see through the darkness, and realises there’s now a dark bullet hole in her ugly yellow couch. 

The gun may be tiny, but man, is it powerful. 

She sighs and looks at her drink. Some of it spilled out onto the table and the bigger peices of glass float around rather violently in it, and she can barely see the little ones that like to hide much like glitter. Well, so much for a victory/failure drink. 

She sits there for a moment.

And then she sighs for the nth time that evening.

She doesn’t move for a while, isn’t sure how long, but it’s enough for her ruined drink to stop moving and for the blood on her arms to dry, either tacky or crusty by then. She hears the clock in the hallway, never losing it’s steady, _steady_ rhythm for the time she listens. 

Part of her wants to be like that clock, in a way.

When she gets up, her body protesting with every inch she stands taller, the sky is a little lighter outside, and she knows she’ll pay hell for staying up so late, and by now the alcohol’s effect is fading, but she can’t find it in herself to care that much, hell, not even a little if she wanted to be mean. 

She picks up the gun and the glass, puts the weapon in a random drawer and dumps the spoiled booze into the sink, and removes the bigger shards from her skin to leave them in there too, and thinks she’ll call it a day, or rather, night in her case. She’s had enough fun for now, and everything else can wait. Future her will probably hate past her for this, but oh well. Can’t change the past or undo what’s already been done.

Can’t fix something that’s too broken to be fixed.

She stops by the counter with the family picture, looks at it again. The smiling faces of her past stare back, but they’re soulless, as they’ve always been, as they always will be. Softly, she snorts.

“Sorry for disappointing you _again_ , _dad_ ,” she says, but the way she says the title is anything _but_ fond, loving, or caring. 

She takes the top of the frame, and puts the picture face down. She’ll deal with it another day. 

She’ll deal with . . . all of _this_ another day. For now, she just wants to go to bed. She feels drained, exhausted, out of breath, _weak_. And she doesn’t know why she feels that way, she hasn’t really done anything, well, _active_ for the most part. Oh well, she’ll just put that mystery off, too.

Slowly, she makes her way out of the kitchen, through the living room, and down the hall to the right, only stumbling a few times, probably from the dark or her, admitly light by now, drunkenness. 

Her bedroom is no better than the kitchen. Bleak, dully colored, and messy. Clothes strewn about over the floor, trash here and there, curtains pulled shut, bed unmade. And maybe a few holes in the wall from many different things, but that’s not the point.

It looks like a tornado hit. But, hey, it’s enough.

She collapses on the bed in a heap, has to move around a bit, and she finds herself curled up with her knees to her chest on her side as she hides under two thick blankets. 

And if she cries a little, then nobody needs to know.

All Haruno Sakura knows is that she doesn’t feel the same anymore and hasn’t felt that way for years now, even if she doesn’t want to admit it. 

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it! Feel free to leave kudos or a comment or even both!


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